


Five Winchester Kisses to Happily Ever After

by a_frayed_edge



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_frayed_edge/pseuds/a_frayed_edge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kiss.  Four lips, a couple of seconds.  It's a strange request, but not really that much to ask.  He's kissed guys before, it's not about that, and if Cas thinks it'll help . . .  He nods.  "Yeah, okay."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Winchester Kisses to Happily Ever After

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the O.C. episode The Sleeping Beauty.

It starts - the way so few things do in their odd, little world - at a party.  
  
For the first time in a long time, they have a night off.  No hunts pending, no wendigos or skinwalkers that are going to require their attention once night falls.  They polished off a vampire three days before, though things did get pretty hairy there at the end, because damn, for all the positives that have come with Cas being completely, one hundred percent human (like the whole "smiling more" thing, and the "mild appreciation for truly great music" thing), it'd be a waste of time for any of them to try to pretend that Cas' depleted angel-strength hasn't come as a blow, especially to Cas himself.  It doesn't matter that Cas is still very strong for a human and can hold his own in the sparring matches with Sam and Dean, he sometimes forgets there are limitations to what his body can handle and he bites off more than he can chew.  And there had been a moment, when the vampire had been straddling Cas as if he weighed nothing at all, sharp, dangerous teeth poised over a vulnerable human neck, where Dean had felt fear that  _seared_ into him, and he hadn't been able to move.  Lucky Sam was quick on the uptake.  
  
So they're in good spirits because ridding the world of even just  _one_ being of evil leaves them lighthearted and happy, brush with death notwithstanding.  Sam's telling Cas about Jess, stories Dean has already heard, but he's listening anyway because he loves to see his brother like this, all relaxed shoulders, and twinkling eyes, and though Sam's tone isn't layered with the love for Jess that he felt so many years before, there's an affection there that will probably never dim.  Dean knows she represents something, not just to Sam, but to both of them, really, and the reminiscing almost keeps her alive.  
  
From the backseat Cas is grinning lightly at Sam's very enthusiastic impression of Dean meeting Jess, stumbling over words, gawking in unchecked reverence.  "You are completely out of my brother's league," he imitates, pitching his voice low and wiggling his eyebrows.  
  
"I did not sound like that," Dean mutters, though neither man hears him.  Instead they're sharing a look, something wordless passing between them.  It's been happening a lot lately, especially over the last couple of weeks, ever since Dean spent three days in a monster-induced coma.  When he finally woke, Cas and Sam were so deep in quiet conversation that he had to clear his throat twice before either noticed he was becoming alert and if he hadn't cornered Sam the next day and made him swear on everything he could think of that the two hadn't hooked up, he would have been certain they had.  So it's friendship, apparently, and if he's a little jealous, well, he thinks that's only natural.  For so long it was  _Dean and Sam_ and  _Dean and Cas_  and now there's a  _Sam and Cas_ element that is a little irritating.  
  
He sounds pathetic.  
  
They've been driving for hours and are twenty minutes from home (and isn't that a weird concept?), and though it's November, the temperature outside is a warm sixty-something.  He makes a left and his eyes are drawn to the solitary bar on the street, a little quiet, run-down thing that piques his interest.  Dean may not really do the random hookup thing anymore, but the car is suddenly feeling a little small so he pulls into the parking lot, smirking to himself when he realizes that Cas hasn't been drunk - seriously drunk - since he became fully human.  This seems like as good a time as any.  
  
Sam doesn't argue, which should set off the alarms in his head, but he's too preoccupied with the list of drinks he's going to inflict on the former angel to pay him too much attention.  
  
The guy at the door doesn't bother checking their I.D.s, which is overall pretty depressing, but Dean determinedly steers his mind away from that train of thought as they step inside, taking note of the small bachelorette party laughing drunkenly in a group by the bar, the four pool tables shoved the back.  He decides to challenge Cas to a game before the night is over.  
  
They approach the bar and weave carefully around the six young women wearing identical silver crowns.  Dean listens to his brother order a light beer (such a girl) then pauses and glances at Cas.  
  
"Anything you want to try first," he generously asks.  
  
Cas' head tilts to the side, a gift that, six years later, keeps on giving, and presses his lips together into a tight line of contemplation.  "Everclear," he suggests, after a beat.  
  
"Uh, no.  Guess again."  Yeah, when Cas was an angel it took an entire liquor store to take him down, but they haven't really tested Cas' alcohol boundaries yet so it's probably best to start small.  And no matter how you cut it, 200 proof just isn't starting small.  
  
"Vodka," he tries, and this time Dean gives a satisfied nod.  
  
"Much better.  Barkeep!"  
  
*  
  
They're eight shots in before Dean starts to feel pretty good.  Sam's rattling on about some sleep therapist he saw on T.V. or something, and Dean's arm is swung across Cas' shoulders as he quietly tells a few stories of his own.  Sam doesn't seem to mind.  Or, notice, really.  And, okay, Dean knows that maybe he's being a little flirty with his friend, but Cas' looks of shock and disdain, with a little amusement peppered in, are somehow so endearing under the influence of alcohol.  
  
"Her name was Agatha, I think," he concludes, leaning in close so he can be sure that Cas hears him over what has become a thick throng of people.  
  
Cas rolls his eyes and his lips quirk up.  "It's very impressive how you can remember the name of a woman who was undoubtedly a mere drop in the metaphorical ocean."  
  
"Did you just call me a whore?"  But the blue eyes twinkle back at him so bright that he ducks his head and laughs low, throwing his hands up in defeat.  "Whatever, I've been called worse."  He's so relaxed, so happy, that when the bartender delivers a new round of -  What are these?  Tequila? - and he throws back his own, he can't stop the words from tumbling from his lips.  "I'm glad we got here," he confesses.  Cas stares back wordlessly, and Dean's stomach clenches with affection.  "You're the best friend I've ever had, man."  
  
The smile that flashes back at him is so wide that he has to return it.  
  
"Excuse me," comes a voice from behind Sam, and Dean looks up to see one of the women from the bachelorette party giving Cas a very . . . expressive look.  She's practically salivating.  "I'm Sandy."  Castiel, predictably, doesn't answer, but the woman isn't deterred.  "Can I buy you a drink?"  
  
Cas steals a questioning glance at Dean, then, Dean notes with surprise, Sam, and when Sam shrugs he allows Sandy to take hold of his hand to pull him a couple of feet down the bar.  But Cas looks so lost that Dean catches his arm and assures him, "Pick up the free drink, and if you're not back in two minutes I'll come rescue you."  
  
Cas nods back, relief evident on his face as he turns to follow the woman.  
  
It's only then that Dean realizes Sam has fallen silent and that he's staring at Dean with a frown that is probably supposed to be subtle and speculative but is really just obvious and annoying.  
  
"What," he demands, but without any real venom in his tone.  
  
Sam shrugs innocently.  "You and Cas seem pretty close lately," he says carefully after a moment.  
  
Dean stares.  "Yeah.  So?"  
  
"So."  He clears his throat.  "Have you ever thought . . ."  He lets his voice trail off, but just in case Dean is missing the point, his eyes are wide with significance.  
  
Dean sighs; even in his drunken state he recognizes an accusation of a crush or whatever when he hears one.  "Sammy, get a grip," he mutters, grabbing Sam's shot and downing it.  
  
He's disappointed when Sam completely ignores his blatant attempt at goading him and presses, "I'm serious, Dean.  Cas is a good guy."  
  
"I know," he snaps, insulted.  Cas is his best friend, and maybe they've been through some shit together, but all of that is water under the bridge now, and it's been a long time since he  _wouldn't_ die for the guy.  Just because Cas and Sam are buddies now or whatever doesn't mean that Sam is now the go-to guy for all things Castiel and in fact, Dean knew how great Cas was long before Sam, so really, Sam should just go back to his sleep therapist monologue.  
  
"And it's been clear since the beginning that-"  
  
"Dude-"  Dean holds up a hand to stop him in his tracks, and to his credit, Sam falls silent.  "I'm not going to date  _Cas_."  
  
Sam's expression doesn't change, but his gaze flickers to something behind Dean, so he turns to get a look himself.  
  
It's Cas, who's clearly disentangled himself from Sandy's clutches, and returned to join the other two.  And Dean takes one look at the naked hurt in his friend's eyes, the lips pulled tight together, and immediately knows what's happened here.   _Dammit, Sammy_.  "Cas," he says, so softly, but he knows it carries over the music.  
  
Cas shakes his head, and says nothing before turning and stalking off, vanishing into the crowd.  
  
Dean's brain processes Cas' reaction, then he turns an icy glare on his brother.  "Did you know," he demands angrily.  He tries to tell himself that this is not Sam's fault, not really, but it's hard to think straight with the memory of the sadness in Cas' eyes so ingrained in his brain.  Sam doesn't answer and Dean's getting to his feet before he realizes what he's doing, and as he throws his money on the bar, he levels his most serious eyes on his brother.  "Do not follow us."  
  
He assumes that Cas retreated to the car, so he makes his way to the front, and as he pulls the door open and steps out into the night air, it hits him again.  
  
Cas . . . is into him.  
  
No matter how many times he turns it over in his mind, he can't make it make sense.  Cas had been a freaking angel of the Lord.  He had been holy, and alien, and hadn't exhibited emotion of any kind for so long.  He pulled Dean out of Hell, so, sure, they did seem to be bonded in a way that was apparently rare enough to ruffle the feathers of pretty much every other angel he's ever met, but Cas is Dean's best friend.  The best friend he's ever had, and even if he did feel that way he knows he could never risk the relationship they already have.  Dean has a history of leaving heartache and pain in his wake, and he has to keep Cas far away from that side of him.  He's too important to lose.  
  
Cas is standing at the Impala, eyes trained firmly on the ground, when he catches up.  He has no idea at all what to say, but he's not leaving until he's absolutely sure they're okay.  "Cas," he begins, his pace slowing as he draws near.  
  
"Dean, this is not necessary," Cas says flatly, his voice carefully blank.  "I know these conversations make you uncomfortable."  
  
And, yeah, Cas is right.  There was a time when Dean could have cheerfully buried himself alive before standing in front of someone he cares about and have a long talk about  _feelings._ But this is Cas, and somehow things have never seemed as hard with him.  Possibly because he doesn't have a real understanding of social norms, so he has no idea if Dean is totally fucking it up.  "Dude, I'm not worried about my own comfort right now.  Are you okay?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Dean almost rolls his eyes.  "Obviously you're not."  
  
"There's nothing to discuss here," Cas says.  He shrugs.  "I would like to be in a committed, loving, sexual relationship with you."  
  
 _Well, that's one way to put it._  
  
"But that is not how you feel about me."  He pauses, and he seems to consider something that makes his eyes sadden.  "Can I ask you a question, though?"  
  
"Of course."  He nudges Cas gently with his side.  "But you wanna look at me while you do it?"  
  
Cas suddenly looks up and meets his gaze.  "The angels' fall, the deal with Crowley."  He takes a breath, steeling himself.  "Are these factors in your decision?"  
  
"No," he answers firmly, in his 'no room for argument' voice.  Before he fully understands what he's doing, he reaches out and grips Cas' forearms with his hands.  "Cas, listen to me.  I left all that stuff behind, I swear.  I meant what I said in the bar, I-  Our friendship is one of the best things that's ever happened to me."  
  
He watches as Cas' expression softens into the fondness that he knows.  "I feel that way too, Dean."  
  
"This has nothing to do with anything you've done.  You're fucking great, man.  I just don't-"  He swallows helplessly, trying to find the perfect words he can say that will ensure his friend won't feel rejection the way the rest of the world does, that it will somehow sting less.  "Tell me what I can do."  
  
Cas seems to consider this as he studies Dean's face, and then he nods decisively.  "Kiss me."  
  
Dean blinks, a little stunned.  "Sorry?"  
  
"I think there's something here," Cas says slowly.  "You do not.  I have watched television, I know that sometimes people require some form of physical intimacy before they realize the depth of their feelings.  This seems like a simple way to be absolutely certain."  
  
"A kiss."   A kiss.  Four lips, a couple of seconds.  It's a strange request, but not really that much to ask.  He's kissed guys before, it's not about  _that_ , and if Cas thinks it'll help . . .  He nods.  "Yeah, okay."  
  
He takes a deep breath, suddenly nervous for some reason, and extends slightly shaking hands to rest on the front of Cas' jacket.  Only a week after becoming human, his 'Holy Tax Accountant' uniform had finally bit the dust, with no angel around to put it back together.  He plays with the zipper for a moment, before brushing his fingertips across Cas' heart.  The hammering in the ribs that pulses under his touch is a little empowering, if he's being honest with himself, and he meets Cas' eyes again.  "You should know, I'm pretty good at this," he says, stalling for just a second.  
  
Cas huffs out a breath of laughter.  "Oh, I believe it," he returns, then the takes hold of the collar of Dean's own jacket, and crushes their lips together.  
  
There's heat.  There's demand, and impatience, and punishment in Cas' kiss that speaks of months, longer, maybe, of waiting.  There's softness, and kindness, and when the tip of Cas' tongue slides deliberately along his lower lip, he doesn't waste time second-guessing, and allows instinct to part his lips.  He can't help the shiver that shoots up his spine any more than he can help the moan that's wretched from his mouth when Cas backs him up against the Impala, forcing a knee between his own.  
  
And just like that, he's dropped back into reality.  
  
He grasps Cas' shoulders and pushes him back gently, breath coming out in ragged puffs of air.  He wants to say something, he really does, to alleviate the tension, to make it clear that he's completely unaffected, but his mind is so blank at this moment that it's taking all his brainpower just to remember to keep breathing.  He can't, for the life of him, figure out why, but he's so  _terrified_ to look at Cas.  But he has to, he knows that, so he tells himself to chill the fuck out and slowly raises his eyes.  
  
Cas looks . . .  Wrecked.  There's no other word for it.  His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen, his pupils blown wide.  Dean has no recollection of carding his fingers through the dark hair, but the way it's sticking up in the back speak volumes as to what happened  _there._ And for just that moment he looks so happy that it strikes Dean right in the gut.  
  
And then his face falls as he processes whatever he sees on Dean's face (no easy feat, Dean assumes, since he, himself, has no clue at all what he's feeling).  "I'm sorry, Dean," he whispers, and then he walks around to the other side of the car and slides into the passenger seat.  
  
Dean and Sam join him in the Impala an hour and four large glasses of ice water later, and no one says anything until they finally reach the Bunker.  
  
2.  
  
The next morning Cas agrees to try blueberry pancakes, and Dean decides he's going to be just fine.  As the day progresses, it looks like he's right.  Cas has been treating him no differently at all, his smile relaxed, his attention undivided.  He's reacting much better than Dean could have ever hoped, giving absolutely no evidence that anything whatsoever transpired between them.   
  
It's Dean, actually, who's the problem.  
  
He doesn't think about the kiss.  He doesn't reflect on the feel of his best friend's hands resting on his hips, and he refuses to remember the heat that had surged up in him like a wave.  But, and it might just be the weirdest thing ever, though he refuses to watch the damn thing replay in his mind, forwards, backwards, in slow motion, he finds himself kind of really wanting to.  And that, maybe, he could write off: idle curiosity, everyone has it.  It's just ...  His stupid, glaringly obvious, so tellingly affected,  _body_.  His hands tremble when he passes Cas the ketchup bottle at lunch, he turns red when Cas reaches past him to plug in his cellphone, and by the time they're seated at the steakhouse they're treating themselves to after saving a three year old boy from the clutches of one pissed off spirit, Sam's attempted to wrangle his attention six different times and the sixth self-satisfied smirk Sam shoots him is one of the most irritating things he's ever seen in his life.  
  
Dean's taking his last bite of rib eye when Cas excuses himself, and Sam says, all innocently and it feels very familiar, "Dean, you feeling alright?  You're a little off your game today."  
  
"I'm fine," he snaps back.  He has no idea if Cas filled Sam in on what Dean is privately referring to as  _That Thing That Happened by the Impala,_ but _he's_ not going to.  He knows his brother would be all great and understanding because that's his thing, but talking about it would make it real and he's pretty sure he's just not ready for that.  He needs to let it, like, marinate or something.  Like his steak.  
  
He looks up to change the subject to something a little more tame, and almost lets out a sigh of relief when Cas slides back into the booth beside Sam.  At least his brand of dangerous is merely distracting and not self-reflective.  
  
"How did it go," Sam asks Cas, and it's only then that Dean actually  _looks_ at his friend.  
  
Cas looks - weird.  His eyes are bright, his expression not happy, exactly, more exhilarated, and he's practically shaking with this inexplicable energy.  But he still manages to look like himself, perpetually annoyed by the whole thing, whatever it is, and for some reason Dean feels his stomach clench.  
  
Cas shrugs.  "Fine.  It was as you suspected."  
  
"I told you."  Sam smiles encouragingly.  "Did you get her number?"  
  
And Dean's brain kicks in, and the words are yanked from him before he can stop himself.  "I'm sorry.  What the hell are you guys talking about?"  
  
Cas' eyes flip to him and they're so blank that it feels intentional, but they study him silently for several long seconds until he finally says, "I have made a date for tomorrow night."  
  
Dean's known Castiel for years.  Years they've been friends, best friends, and Dean likes to think he knows the guy better than anyone else.  He's not sure why he's always taken it for granted, but even back in the days when  _Uriel_ was still a part of the scene he had always felt a little smug, like he was privy to knowledge about the angel he was calling 'Cas' that no one else in Heaven knew.  He supposes he can chalk it up to that day in the park when Cas shared something with him that he revealed to no one else:  _Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?_ So he thinks he's a little entitled to the sputter of disbelief that he chokes out.  
  
"Uh. W- _What?_ "  
  
Cas folds his hands together over the table, a sudden picture of cam, like he hasn't just dropped some bombshell out in the middle of nowhere, and tilts his head.  "Do you not remember Sam's suggestion that the waitress was flirting with me," he asks, and no, Dean definitely does not remember that.  Of course, he's been spacing out like a little girl, so it's not a huge surprise.  
  
"Oh," Dean says.  His tone sounds an octave too high, but he doesn't dwell on it.  "So, you have a date."  
  
"It was bound to happen eventually _"_  
  
Dean tries to nod, forces a smile he doesn't feel.  "Yeah, I guess it was."  
  
*  
  
Twenty four hours later Dean still has no idea what he's feeling, and Cas is tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his black dress pants.  He looks so normal in the dark green button-down, and Dean has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes when he sees Cas has it buttoned all the way up to his neck.  
  
"Unbutton the top one," he instructs from the doorway, and he can't explain a strange jolt of satisfaction when Cas jumps a little, taken off guard.  
  
His hands move to his top button to do as he's told, but there's nothing submissive or demur in the frown he shoots back.  "You're very bossy," he mutters, but his voice is pitched to carry and this time Dean does roll his eyes.  
  
"I'm trying to help you out."  It's as true as anything else, but it feels purely selfish when he watches Cas reveal a sliver of skin by his neck.  He's losing it, there's really no explanation, because he is having to physically keep himself from stepping forward into Cas' space.  "Are you . . . excited," he asks, and then he kicks himself because he's doesn't think he really wants to know.  
  
Cas shrugs and takes a step towards the doorway.  Sam's car keys are in his hand, and it's not like Dean would offer up the Impala anyway, but it feels weird to know Cas is going to drive up to meet someone in his brother's wheels.  "I don't know," he answers.  He chews thoughtfully on his lower lip, a movement that has Dean, for some reason, totally transfixed.  "Heather teaches a weekend theology class at the community college.  It makes as much sense a match as any other."  
  
"Theology?  Huh."  
  
Cas narrows his eyes testily.  "What?"  
  
"Nothing."  And he doesn't mean to say anything more, especially since Cas doesn't press him on it, but, well, he does.  "I just would never have pegged you for dating the religious type."  
  
"Dean, that makes no sense at all."  
  
"I just mean . . .  This girl is going to try to impress you.  It's your first date, that's how it works.  So she's going to be talking about religion because she's going to think she's really, like, knowledgeable, and then she's going to say something about Mark or Moses or some shit that's totally wrong, and you'll call her out on it because that's what you do, and before you know it, she's storming out and you're left with your lasagna and the check."  
  
Cas' eyebrows are up by his hairline and he shakes his head in exasperation.  "I think I'll chance it."  
  
Dean figures this is his cue to leave, but as he turns, Cas' fingertips brush his elbow, stilling him.  "Dean, are you alright," he asks quietly, all bravado, sarcasm, and impatience slipping from his face.  They're replaced by something that looks like guilt.  "If this is about what happened the other night, I apologize.  The last thing I wanted to do was upset you."  
  
Cas looks so forlorn that Dean feels a stab of guilt of his own.  Yes, he might be a little insane right now, but it's not exactly fair to send Cas out on his date thinking he's done something wrong when really it's just Dean.  So he does the thing that makes perfect sense to him at that moment, and reaches forward to catch Cas' chin, and tips his face up until their eyes meet.  And then he's leans forward and brushes his lips so lightly against the corner of Cas' mouth.  
  
It doesn't last even a full second, but when he straightens his lips are still buzzing from the contact and Cas' cheeks are red.  "I'm not upset, Cas," he says softly, his voice rough and low.  "See?  Kissing.  No big deal."  
  
Cas opens his mouth to say something, but closes it before he does, and leaves the room without another word.  
  
*  
  
When Cas gets home Dean and Sam are not waiting up.  
  
They're not waiting up because Cas comes stalking back through the door barely an hour after he leaves.  And he looks angry.  Really, really, seriously angry.  His hands are balled up into fists, his eyebrows furrowed together, his teeth gritting dangerously.  He crosses the room to stand in front of them and folds his arms over his chest.  
  
"So, how was your date," Sam eventually inquires when it becomes clear that Cas is content staring at them in stony silence.  
  
Cas huffs.  "Short."  
  
Sam glances at Dean, who thinks he should probably keep his own mouth shut, considering the emotion he identifies as _relief_ fluttering in his chest, but he's pretty curious himself, so he has to prompt, "What happened?"  
  
"Dates got involved."  
  
"Dates," Dean repeats blankly.  "Like, she brought someone with her?"  He's going to faint dead-away, he just knows it.  He's going to pass out here, in the middle of the Bunker, because he wasn't real wild about the idea of Cas going out to begin with (might as well admit that now, while he's mid-breakdown), and it doesn't matter that obviously nothing happened if Cas is standing here all pissed, but did he stare at the women, thoughts filling his mind of -  
  
"Like  _dates,_ Dean," Cas snaps.  " _Years._  Specifically, the year the Tower of Babel fell."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Cas' eyes narrow to barely-there slits, and glare at Dean something fierce, as if to make it quite clear who he blames for this debacle.  It's hard for Dean to argue, since he predicted the whole thing.  For a second he steels himself for an onslaught of straight up wrath but it never comes.  Cas rolls his eyes, his ire forgotten, and while Dean tries to recover from this strange form of whiplash, Cas sighs, then says, "It doesn't matter anyway.  I've made another appointment."  
  
3.  
  
Dean is in some sort of alternate reality, that's the only explanation.  
  
He knows that Cas is attractive, in a way.  He's got the hair, and the eyes, and his voice is ridiculously low, and he's not just pretty.  He might not say much, but he's an interesting guy overall, enthusiastic, smart.  And not just angel-smart, because Dean knows better than anyone else that most angels aren't even equipped to understand concepts like "free will" and "the family you choose," but Cas does.  And he's even retained a little of what Dean thinks of as his badass mother-fuckery.  
  
So, whatever, yeah, Dean gets it.  But Cas has now made two dates in as many days and Dean, who has never had a problem finding a date, or, hell, an overnight guest before, is spending his evenings at home with his brother, preparing a truly impressive amount of coffee and pretending to search through the local paper for anything that could be anything.  The worst part is, he's pretty sure it's not a coincidence, especially when he feels his eyes slide over to the hallway that holds Cas' bedroom for what has got to be the tenth time that evening.  
  
It's been over an hour since Cas shut himself in there, the warning glare he shot Dean on the way in very clearly translating into  _do not even entertain the idea of following me._ But time is crawling, and there's a strange anticipation scratching at his skin making it hard to focus on anything other than the fact that Cas is getting ready to go out with a woman Dean knows nothing about.  Like, really nothing.  Not what she does, not where they met, not what she looks like.  Cas has been so mum that  _it_ doesn't feel like a coincidence either.  
  
Dean shifts on his chair, and it's fairly annoying, how quickly he feels Sam's gaze sharpen.  "Dean, you alright," he asks.  Considering how flawlessly Sam plays an F.B.I. Agent, a caring coworker, a member of the freaking clergy, his tone is barely masked with saccharine concern.  
  
Dean throws him a  _look_ , but even he hears the way his voice raises defensively.  "Dude, seriously.  Shut it."  
  
"Just asking a question."  Sam opens his mouth to continue with this vetoed conversation but then Dean's getting to his feet.  
  
He can't begin to guess how he ends up outside Cas' bedroom door, but he's knocking gently and cocking his head to listen before he even realizes he's considering it.  
  
There's a long pause, which doesn't come as a surprise, then, "Come in, Dean."  
  
He's not sure if it's a good thing or not that Cas immediately knows it's him, but he shakes his head to clear his thoughts and pushes the door open.  
  
Cas is lying atop his impeccably-made bed, his head propped up on a pillow _._ He holds a thick copy of  _The Shining_ in his hands that he closes when he lifts his eyes to give Dean his full attention.  "What," he prompts after a silent moment.  
  
Dean's not sure.  There's something off about Cas tonight.  He's dressed in date attire, black pants, one of his nicer shirts, but he couldn't look more relaxed, with his feet bare, his legs crossed at the ankles, and the bed-head out in all its glory.  He looks breathtakingly beautiful like this, free from the darkness that has been known to follow them so closely and Dean can't help but stare.  
  
Cas lifts curious eyebrows, reminding him that, right, it's his turn to talk.  "That's a creepy book," he finally settles on, stepping further into the room, closing the door behind him.  He drifts over to Cas' bed, and he can't explain the way his heart pumps furiously against his ribcage.  
  
Cas glances down at the cover, then smiles a little.  "Have you read it," he asks, and when Dean slowly nods, he continues.  "I'm surprised by how much I'm enjoying it.  I find the child to be the only voice of reason."  
  
"Yeah, he is."  He clears his throat, tries to remember the reason he came in here in the first place, which is when he realizes he didn't have one.  "So, what time is your date?"  It's work to keep his expression schooled as Cas studies him suspiciously, but he thinks he manages it.  
  
"It was canceled."  
  
The words draw an explosion of joy in Dean's stomach that he only  _just_ manages to be ashamed of.  He doesn't examine it too closely, refuses to second-guess the reason behind the weight that lifts off his shoulders like a heavy, uncomfortable blanket, but he doesn't deny that he feels it.  He checks the grin, but it's a near thing.  
  
"Sorry," he tries, but it's so transparently the exact opposite of what he actually wants to say that Cas' low laugh takes him off guard.  
  
"You're not going to be able to do this forever," Cas says, his voice steady and calm.  He slides off the bed and where he ends up leaves them standing incredibly close.  Close enough that he's not sure if the heat he feels radiating off of Cas is his imagination or not.  
  
He can't look away, doesn't know if he even wants to try.  "Do what?"  His hand moves to Cas' shoulder, his thumb finding the column of Cas' neck, and he doesn't mean to press his nail into the skin, but he does.  
  
Cas leans his head back to catch his eyes, the amusement flickering across his lips warring with the open desire in his eyes.  He licks his lips, Dean predictably tracks the movement.  "That, for example," he murmurs.  He raises his right arm, and lets his hand fall to Dean's own shoulder.  He drags his thumb up Dean's neck, eliciting a shiver.  "And that.  You said this wasn't what you wanted."  
  
Dean swallows.  He did say that, he can recall the whole thing with vivid accuracy, but yet another reason evades him.  
  
He's not sure who actually pulls.  He thinks it might be Cas though Dean's aching for it so badly that it could just as easily be him.  Cas' lips are wet, soft, as they slide against his own, and this time there's no hesitation at all before he's opening his mouth, pressing his tongue down Cas' throat, and the resulting groan is so needing that he tangles his fingers into the short hairs at the back of Cas' neck.  Cas grips the back of Dean's shirt at the base of his spine, and he gasps, but the sound is lost in Cas' broken, " _Dean."_  
  
And that should be a reality check, it really should, but Dean's upstairs brain officially left the building the moment he touched Cas, maybe before that, actually, and that probably should concern him a little, but he's far too wrapped up in the blood absolutely  _flooding_ south under his skin, and the press of Cas' fingers into his hips.  Cas nips slightly harder than necessary at his jaw, and growl that explodes from Dean is involuntary, but then Cas' breath catches, and it's honestly the hottest thing Dean's ever heard in his life.  He noses impatiently at Cas' jaw, guiding his head to the side so he can finally taste the soft skin of Cas' neck, when he dimly registers a tight grip clamp into the shoulder of his shirt, and push him firmly back.  
  
His eyes snap back open and he has just a moment to drink in Cas' flushed cheeks, wet lips, shuttering breaths before his friend sighs.  
  
"Kissing," Cas says, and though his tone is even, his voice has a rough edge that sends sparks firing off in Dean's brain.  It's the sparks that must be responsible for the sudden images of cutting off the rest of whatever Cas plans to say by throwing him to the bed, backing him up to a wall, reaching for his belt buckle.  Basically, any myriad of things that once upon a time would never have even crossed his mind. "You're right, Dean.  No big deal."  
  
4.  
  
For two weeks Dean gets to pretend that everything is normal.  They work jobs, they watch movies on a television Dean sets up in the control room, and the only time Cas goes out is when Sam and Dean are with him.  Which doesn't really happen that often anyway, because Dean spends the entire time shooting razor-sharp glares at every female within a twenty foot radius and is usually grouchy as hell afterwards.  It's not Cas' fault that he ended up with the vessel he did, that Jimmy Novak should have had such a lithe but toned frame, crystal blue eyes and Dean can just imagine how many women are mentally undressing him.  
  
It is weird though, Dean thinks one Thursday afternoon, while Sam and Cas are whiling away hours at the local library and he's perusing their video selection for Return of the Jedi in case they decide to make tonight a movie night.  Cas may have inherited his body, but he doesn't really look that much like Jimmy.  Cas carries himself in a way that makes it easy to forget that Jimmy ever lived in there.  It's just  _Cas'_ sharp cheekbones,  _Cas'_ soft mouth.  And not just anyone should be touching him.  
  
The door to the Bunker opens with all the subtlety of a freight train, and Dean looks up to see his brother and Cas enter, each toting enough books to fill their own libraries.  Cas' stack piles high, past his shoulders, and Dean doesn't bother hiding an eye-roll as he takes several from the top.  
  
"You guys do realize there are books  _here,_ " he points out, dropping the books onto the closest table.  Cas lowers the rest of his books into a stack beside them.  "A lot of them are probably even in English."  
  
"Blame Cas," Sam says dryly as he joins them.  "He had to take every one that the librarian recommended."  
  
"I was being polite," Cas argues.  Something in his tone, though, sends Dean's gaze flying over, and the straight line of his back and grit of his teeth are impossible to miss.  
  
Impossible to misinterpret.  
  
"You have got to be kidding me."  The words slip from his lips without conscious thought, but he's too wrapped up the sudden surge of rage that fills him to waste time regretting them.  Seriously.  The library is supposed to be one of the safe places because the only girl, Amie, is on maternity leave for another month.  Did they hire someone new?  He's not supposed to have to worry about the nerd crowd, too, dammit.  
  
Cas frowns at him.  "I am not  _kidding_ you.  Scott is attractive, and kind, and -"  
  
Woah.  Go back.  "Did you say  _Scott_ ," Dean asks.  There's not as much venom in his voice as he would have hoped, and, frankly, he can hear horror more than anything else, but, no.  Scott?  Like, Scott, the manager at the library who was all,  _Man that is a beautiful car_ that night Dean picked up Cas, who had lost track of time among the dusty shelves.  Scott had been on his way inside, but stopped in his tracks to admire the Impala and Dean had thought that, hey, this was a man with taste.  "Scott asked you out?"  
  
"Yes."  Cas raises an eyebrow.  "Is that a problem?"  
  
"No," Dean says.  "No problem."  
  
Except that, as the hours pass alarmingly fast, Dean starts to realize just how big a problem it actually is.  Because maybe he's been a little, whatever,  _hesitant_ about the idea of Cas trying to find a Mrs. Right, but thinking about Cas with Scott is unbridled, unfiltered torture.  In his mind's eye he watches them share bowls of popcorn at the movies, smile gently at each other over candlelight, watches Scott become so charmed by Cas' little head-tilt.  It's jealousy sitting heavily in the pit of his stomach, and it's jealousy that brings him to Cas' bedroom door in what is becoming an almost embarrassing pattern.  
  
He knocks and when Cas gives him the okay to enter, he barrels into the room.  
  
Cas has finished getting ready, it's the first thing Dean notices.  He's studying himself critically in the mirror and it's so human a gesture that the jealousy abates long enough for Dean to feel a spike of gentle fondness for his friend.  It's not often that Dean sits around being grateful that Metadouche snatched away Cas' angelness, turning a body that once bruised Dean's hand into something much more fragile, but at this moment, right now, Dean's feels nothing but warmth, seeing Cas surrounded by a room that's his own.  
  
Well, until he recognizes the shirt Cas is wearing.  
  
"No."  He's surprised when the word escapes his lips, but he doesn't regret it.  Not when Cas is wearing a light blue button-down that matches his eyes in a shade that is almost eerie, not when the thin strip of skin that's exposed by open collar looks so tantalizingly tan.  It's just a shirt and Dean does know this, but white-hot possessiveness surges up in him and there's just no way that Scott is going to see Cas like this.  
  
"No," Cas repeats in surprise.  "No, what?"  
  
Dean doesn't answer, ignoring him in favor of approaching the small closet on the opposite side of the room.  There's only a red sweater and a grey Henley hanging inside, so he pulls the latter off a hanger, dropping it onto the bed and returns to Cas, who stares silently at the shirt.  In fact, he doesn't speak until Dean lays heavy hands on his shoulders and turns him so that they're facing.  When Dean reaches out and slips the bottom button of the shirt he's wearing through its hole and the tips of his fingers brush Cas' belly, Cas sucks in a breath.  "What are you doing," he whispers and Dean doesn't look up, can't meet his gaze as he repeats the motion on the next one up.  
  
"You're not wearing this," he says, as though it's completely normal for him to be undressing Cas in the privacy of his bedroom.  Or anywhere, really.  The intimacy of the action, however, completely overrides the absurdity, and  _want_ settles around him like a dense fog.  He works another button and tells himself that he's expecting Cas to push him away.  
  
It feels like hours before Dean's finished and the shirt is hanging open.  Cas doesn't move and for a long time the only sounds in the room are their soft inhalations.  Then he snaps his eyes to Dean's, catching them in an unrelenting, pinning gaze.  "This is dangerous," he says, a note of warning in his voice.  
  
Dean nods, but it doesn't stop him from slipping his fingers under the soft cloth and pushing it off Cas' shoulders, to the floor.  
  
The temperature of the room skyrockets as Dean feels his careful resistance fall and he rakes his eyes greedily over every inch of Cas' smooth skin.  The desire to press bruises into his sides, mark his chest with licks and gentle bites feels like a palpable pressure and must show a little on his face because Cas' choked out " _Dean-"_  is so beautifully wrecked that Dean's head falls forward to rest against Cas' shoulder.  
  
"We can't," he tells Cas, tells himself.  "I'll hurt you."  
  
And there it is, the actual problem, the real reason he can't let himself give into the  _screaming_ of his body.  Because this is Cas.  Cas, who is his best friend and the last time Dean thought he'd lost him he had barely survived.  And losing Cas because Dean (yeah, pretty much no denying it now) wants him, and not just for sex but for every stupid thing that comes with relationships, is unacceptable.  
  
He takes a deep breath and carefully pulls away, and he's a step from the door when Cas' low reply floats over:  "You already have."  
  
*  
  
By the time Cas gets home shortly after midnight Dean is thoroughly drunk.  
  
He hadn't intended to get this drunk.  He started drinking at ten, when Cas still hadn't walked back into the Bunker complaining that the date was horrendous or had to be cut short or canceled, and he's not sure at what point he actually decided he wasn't going to stop until his friend returned, but the point is that Dean is thoroughly drunk.  And regardless of that fact, he can still feel the waves of judgement coming off Cas as he rolls his eyes and fills a cup with ice water, dropping it and two Tylenol onto the coffee table at Dean's left.  "It's unwise for you to be drinking like this," Cas seems unable to keep himself from saying.  
  
Dean waves his comment aside and finds himself speaking without specifically checking with his mouth filter.  "You understand, right?"  
  
"The sudden bout of drunkenness?"  Cas sighs and takes a seat in a nearby chair.  "No, I don't think I do."  
  
"Not that.  I'm talking about - you do know that I want you, right?"  He feels Cas' surprise from where he's sitting but he doesn't let it slow him.  "Like, I really want you.  It's driving me crazy, and I keep thinking about, like."  He licks his lips.  "Fuck, all the stuff I want to do to you."  
  
"Dean," Cas breathes out.  
  
"And it's not even all dirty stuff.  Like, yeah, I mean, I'm taking showers thinking about what it'd be like to drop to my knees, take your cock into my throat and-"  
  
" _Dean."_  
  
"And take you apart until you're begging.  But it's not just that, there's other stuff too.  Like, I want to be the only person in the world allowed to listen to you sleep.  To know what your eyelids look like when you dream and it is so seriously fucking annoying."  He drops his head into his hands, and flinches at the way it swims.  "I'm losing it."  
  
He's not sure how long passes before the soft shuffling sound tells him that Cas has climbed to his feet and is now studying him from a foot away.  "Yes, well," Cas says, and there might be amusement trickling into his tone, Dean can't really be sure.  "I suppose we both are."  
  
"Are you going to see Scott again," Dean blurts out before he can stop himself.  
  
Cas nods, studying his hands.  "He invited me to a movie for tomorrow night."  
  
A block of ice settles in Dean's chest at the idea of Scott exposing Cas to movies Dean's never seen but he swallows it down and pours himself another shot of Jack.  Before he has time to reach for it, though, it's gone and he blinks blearily up at Cas, who downs the thing like a champ.  When did he even stand, Dean wonders drunkenly.  "Dude."  
  
"I think you've had enough," says Cas.  He disappears for a moment to take the shot glass to the sink, and when he returns there's a defeated line in his shoulders that sets Dean ill at ease.  There's sadness sketched into his features.  "I can't just . . .  Wait around for you," he whispers.  "I can't keep asking you for something you aren't willing to give."  
  
"What do you want from me?  I'm being all confessional here.  I told you what I feel."  
  
"And all it took was two bottles of liquor and petty jealousy," Cas snaps.  Then something flashes across his face and he swoops down, pressing a chaste kiss to Dean's lips.  The pressure disappears before Dean has a chance to react, but it doesn't stop his heart from doubling its beat.  "It's not enough to kiss you, to know that you want to be with me physically.  I'm asking for a relationship, Dean, and I can't accept anything less."  
  
Dean sighs.  "It's just not that simple."  
  
"It's as simple as you let it be," Cas counters, but there's something in his voice that sounds a lot like he's giving up, and it's somehow one of the scariest things Dean's ever faced.  
  
They don't move for several minutes, each waiting for the other to speak, until Cas drops his eyes and turns away, leaving Dean to his thoughts.  
  
5.  
  
Dean's jolted awake by a sharp pain in his leg, and as he struggles to blink himself into consciousness, he sees the tall form of his brother standing over him, hands on his hips.  
  
"Dean, what the hell is the matter with you?"  
  
He glares up at Sam with as much malice as he can summon, but it's not much since a hangover-induced migraine joins the party.  "Did you just kick me?"  
  
"Answer the question: What the hell is the matter with you?"  
  
"Well, right now, the fact that my leg hurts."  
  
"You do realize he's going to fall in love with someone else, right?"  Sam's voice is sharp and angry, not an inch of sympathy slipping in and immediately Dean's defenses go up.  It's not as though this is a decision that he's come to lightly, it's not as though he hasn't spent more than one night lying awake trying to imagine what he will feel when Cas finds someone else.  He  _knows_ it's going to suck just like he knows that if he hadn't agreed to kiss Cas in the first place he wouldn't even be in this mess.  Really, it's his own fault.  
  
"Yeah, Sam, I realize."  It's unnerving, staring up at Sam like this, so he climbs carefully to his feet, only just realizing that he's still wearing his clothes from the night before.  He supposes he should be grateful for small favors.  
  
"And you don't care," Sam fires back.  
  
"Yeah, I care," Dean snaps.  He doesn't want to fight with his brother because the last thing he really needs is the only other person he's living with to be pissed at him too, but he's tired, he's hung over, and his patience with the whole thing has officially reached its breaking point.  "Do you think I'm getting some kind of  _kick_ out of this situation, that this is fun for me?  Do you think I like hurting Cas?"  
  
"Of course not," Sam answers.  His tone gentles and he takes a breath.  "But I gotta say, I'm wondering how much this even has to do with Cas."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"What it sounds like.  You say you don't want to hurt Cas, but it seems like if you didn't you'd just.  You know.  Go for it.  It's pretty obvious that what he's feeling is reciprocated, but for whatever reason, you keep telling him no."  
  
"Do I seriously need to spell this out for you?"  Fury bubbles up inside him, spilling into his next words.  " _I.  Will.  Screw.  It.  Up."_  
  
Sam stares at him, contemplative, before he speaks again.  "Look, Dean," he begins quietly, "I'm no expert on Cas, but I do have eyes.  I have been with you guys since the beginning.  And I'm pretty sure, considering all the crap you guys have done to each other the last few years, that if he hasn't left by now, he's not going to.  Just because stuff hasn't always worked out for us-"  
  
Dean scoffs.  
  
"Or, rarely worked out for us, you and Cas could be something real.  He isn't some guy you've picked up in a town we're going to spend one night in.  He's Cas, and he cares about you."  Sam seems to run out of steam then, and he shrugs.  "I'm just saying.  You should think about it."  
  
He does.  
  
*  
  
He finds Cas in his room, and if his nerves weren't shot to hell, he thinks he would find it a little funny.  As it is, waiting outside the door for Cas' tentative, "Come in" feels a little like he's facing a firing squad.  Scarier, actually, because Dean's faced far more guns in his life than conversations like he's about to have.  
  
Cas doesn't look at him when he steps inside.  He's laid out on the bed the way he was just a few days earlier, his face buried in _The Shining_ , but as Dean gently closes the door and crosses the room, he can't help but notice that the stunning blue eyes are not skating across the page, merely staring, sightless, at some point in the middle.  He looks up, though, startled, when Dean takes a seat in front of him on the bed.  
  
"Cas, can I talk to you for a sec," he asks.  
  
He's watching carefully, so he's able to pinpoint the exact moment Cas decides this isn't going to go well.  His eyes shutter, he sets the book aside, and begins nervously fiddling with the bottom of the black Kansas tee shirt Dean gave him shortly after he became human.  It'd be endearing, actually, if it wasn't for the heat that twists in his stomach at the sight of Cas wearing his clothes.  "Of course, Dean," he agrees, if somewhat stiltedly.  "What is it?"  
  
The pathetic thing is that Dean does realize that there's really no reason to be nervous here.  For weeks Cas has done nothing but give him the green light, so it stands to reason that a few hours in the middle of the night would not have made a difference, but regardless of this knowledge, he's suddenly so far beyond terrified that it's becoming hard to think.  Not so good a thing, since he's supposed to be - "I wanna try."  
  
Cas' gaze darts up and his eyes widen almost comically, but his tone is carefully guarded when he repeats, "You wanna . . .  Try."  
  
"Right."  
  
"And by 'try' you mean?"  
  
God, Dean is terrible at this.  It takes all the self-restraint he can muster to avoid just closing the distance and attempting to get his point across in an entirely different way, but bypassing this conversation for more kissing sounds like a recipe for disaster.  It's not just about the physical. "You know.  The committed, loving, sexual relationship . . .  Thing."  
  
Cas freezes and for one second Dean is sure this is going to go the opposite way, that his friend has somehow managed to change his mind since the evening before, and the hurt and disappointmenthits him like a ton of bricks.  He sucks in air, preparing to climb to his feet, but before it even becomes a full thought, Cas surges forward and kisses him.  
  
The firm press of Cas' lips to his own takes him off guard, but his body responds to the touch instantly and he tangles his fingers into the thick, dark locks, as his other hand tightly grips Cas' waist, tugging him closer.  He can barely breathe, barely  _think_ through the haze of desire that's kicked in like some bizarre form of conditioning, and when Cas' fingertips slip under his shirt to dance dangerously along his waist, his brain shuts down completely.  
  
"Dean," Cas murmurs against his mouth.  His hands flatten against the planes of Dean's back, fire following the path, heating everything in its wake.  " _Dean._ "  
  
He pulls back, barely inches, but then Cas licks swollen, red lips, and Dean knows his taste lingers there and it's not enough, not nearly, so he gives in and leans in again to worry at the perfect lower lip.  "Cas," he tries to get out, but he has no idea if he manages it or not.  
  
Cas pushes gently, and Dean lets himself fall sideways against the bed, and  _yes_ Cas is a genius because being horizontal right now is definitely the best decision that has been made in the history of ever.  Cas' mouth moves from his and plants itself where Dean's shoulder meets his neck, sucking frantically, and the shiver it elicits is completely involuntary.  As is the way his body rolls them over so that he can stare down into Cas' lust-blown pupils and press his hips into the mattress.  
  
"Beautiful," he breathes, not bothering to mask a note of awe.  He shakes his head in his belief and lowers his lips to brush against the hollow of Cas' throat.  Cas gasps, scrabbles desperately for the bottom of Dean's shirt and Dean gets the hint, raising his arms to let Cas pull it off completely.  "Absolutely fucking beautiful Cas, you know that?  Wanted you all this time and never even knew-"  
  
"Dean."  Exasperation peppers Cas' tone as he digs blunt nails into Dean's back.  "Please.  Stop talking."  
  
And he does.  Words melt into fluid motion as Dean settles more comfortably between Cas' legs and kisses him harder, deeply, letting his tongue tease Cas' mouth open before plunging inside.  Heat pools in his groin and he growls in frustration  _notenoughnotenough_ and he slides down, tugging Cas' shirt up, dropping open-mouthed kisses down his chest.  He licks a line across his abdomen, Cas squirms against the attention and Dean can't explain why that's as hot as it is, and he needs to -  
  
He pops open the button on Cas' jeans, pulls the zipper down and it's then that he realizes that Cas has his eyes squeezed shut.  "Look at me," he whispers.  He catches the soft skin of Cas' belly between his teeth and  _bites_.  "Cas, look at me."  
  
Cas swallows hard and his gaze flies to meet Dean's.  Desire and warmth blaze in the thin rings of blue and he has to slide back up to kiss him again.  He brushes his knuckles along the front of Cas' boxers and Cas' strangled gasp is delicious, and he yanks down the jeans and underwear before wrapping a tight grip around Cas' cock and giving it one slow stroke.  
  
Cas bucks up into his hand and moans loud, but Dean swallows it down.  He pulls again, from root to tip, his thumb grazing the vein underneath and it's a special kind of thrill to watch Cas' body respond so strongly to his touch, to watch his erection stiffen in his palm.  His own pants are uncomfortably tight and he has to release Cas long enough to relieve the pressure.  He's hard, driven to take himself in his hand, and Cas shutters when he catches the other's cock again and jerks them together, starts jacking them off fast and rough.  Cas is leaking, they both are, the sound of the slicking fluid echoing in the room and he dives in to kiss Cas again and kisses him and kisses him until his lips are tender and so soft that he slows to gentle presses, coaxing Cas to climax.  
  
Cas comes with a shout and Dean follows instantly, loosening his grip to stroke them through the aftershocks.  He can feel Cas trembling in his arms and it's instinctive to catch his gaze, hold it with his own.  There are three words that would fit so perfect right now, words he  _wants_ to say, but he opens his mouth and they stick in his throat.  
  
"It's okay," Cas says, surprising him.  He tilts his head up and kisses Dean again.  "It's okay, I understand."  
  
That's the thing about Cas, he  _does_ understand, understands Dean in a way that so few have ever tried to, and so he doesn't feel ridiculous that Cas takes a hand and threads their fingers together.  "I'm not going to change my mind," Dean says, because this he can say.  "I'm in this.  I'm so in."  
  
Cas grins mischievously.  "Not yet," he teases.  "But you could be."  The implication sends Dean's thoughts plummeting into complete filth and he startles out a breathless laugh.  
  
"Sounds like a plan."


End file.
